


To Form a More Perfect Union

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Food, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, More tags to be added, Writer Stiles, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never expected that helping an injured dog would result in him living out the plot of one of his novels. Now he’s accidentally married himself to the alpha of the esteemed Blackwood pack and hoping that Deucalion isn’t too good to be real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> Many many thanks to Mar for loving Stalion with me and telling me that this was good. 
> 
> Sometimes a person just has to write a rom-com. I hope you all enjoy this little departure from my usual tone and pairing. I've wanted to write some Stalion for the last year, so here we go. Wildly fluffy and non-evil Alpha pack coming right up.

Cups might as well be Stiles’ home away from home. The sofas and chairs are overstuffed and contoured to the countless asses that park in them for hours at a time, year after year. The windows and shelves are lined with used books that you can take home for a dollar. The coffee is never burned or too bitter. The loose teas are divine. He’s never had anything less than magical out of the bakery case, and there’s a reason they have a lunch rush. They _make their own pasta_ every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s been the backdrop for many a first date. Cups succeeds at high-quality, quirky charm where every pretentious hipster cafe tries and fails. As a regular, Stiles has grown accustomed to the staff doing him little favors like guarding his spot from trespassers and sending him home with leftover pasta and baked goods instead of just throwing them out. After years of coming here to work on his writing or just chill out, some of them even take the initiative to shoo people away from his table while he’s “in the zone”.

So when a shadow falls over his keyboard, Stiles doesn’t even pause his furious typing. He’s just figured out what’s going to happen with this stupid scene, so he can’t leave Javier hanging around balls-deep inside an ass. The dude is about to knot his _secret mate_ after two books of will-they-won’t-they. Stiles doesn’t have time for random newcomers complaining about how loudly he types. His lips purse when the shadow drifts closer. Whoever it is almost enters his peripheral vision and hovers there like they’re waiting for an acknowledgment.

Fine. He’ll suck it up and apologize. This time. “Uh, sorry. I’m a little busy here. The clacking will stop soon, but knotting waits for no man.” Stiles glances up, and he can’t help his reaction. His mouth drops open. Probably a lot. He licks his lips and stares like he’s never seen a handsome man in his life, when _hello_ , he hangs out with the Hales on a regular basis. Everyone in that family could be a model. But he hardly ever tells hot strangers that “knotting waits for no man” without even sparing them a look. _Fuck his life forever._

The shadow over his keyboard belongs to an unfairly attractive older man with sandy brown hair and ridiculous blue eyes. His face is a bit weathered, but the guy wears his age well. _Very well._ Even in what looks like a petably soft cardigan, he has an aura of confidence and… power. 

It’s really fucking hot.

Stiles isn’t really into daddy stuff. _He’s not._ But boy does he have an authority kink about five miles wide. Older men in dad sweaters always touch his id exactly the way he hoped a few of his professors would. Handsome professor guy can complain to him any day… except the guy seems like he’s not here to complain? And he’s familiar. Maybe it’s the eyes, but Stiles also knows he’s never seen him before in his life. It’s not like he’d forget someone who looks like this.

“Hi.” Stiles blinks. His face feels so hot that it’s a sure bet he’s gone all splotchy and red.

Handsome older man offers him a lopsided smile; it nearly makes his heart explode. "Hello, again,” he says with a vaguely British accent. “I wasn’t actually going to complain about your work. I’ll agree, knotting waits for no man… but I’ve been waiting to approach you ever since the last full moon.” He elaborates when Stiles continues to stare at him like an idiot. “You found me at Alder Park and helped me when I was in wolf form. Not everyone would have been so kind."

"Ohhh! Nah, man.” He shrugs. “I was just being a decent person. No cookies necessary.” Okay, so handsome, British werewolf just wants to extend his gratitude for Stiles’ lifesaving skills and werewolf whispering. The world makes sense again. He takes a sip of coffee and tries to banish thoughts of sexy professors and the size of their knots. “Glad to see you're okay."

"I couldn’t be better now that I’m talking to you. I would have come sooner, but I wanted to give you a chance to organize your affairs.” The werewolf’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. It’s a very attractive look even if nothing he’s saying makes sense to Stiles. Organize his affairs? Jesus, is someone _dead_? “I hope you’ve decided if you want to move in with me. Or me with you. Now that we’re married."

_Married?_ What. Distracted as he is by the charming accent, there’s no mistaking that word.

Stiles sprays the table with a mouthful of coffee, barely missing his laptop. "We’re what? Hold up there, buddy. Explain to me how in the hell we got hitched _without me knowing_. I write romance novels, but that’s a little cheesy—even for my stuff."

The outburst is enough to startle the werewolf into a half-step back. “You didn’t know?”

“I think I’d remember the ceremony, dude.”

Despite Stiles’ dismissal of a moment so amazing and romantic that he _can’t fucking remember it_ , the werewolf gazes down at him with something akin to adoration in his blue eyes. Those eyes compel Stiles to let the guy take his hand and kiss the back of it like he’s some kind of fair maiden. "You freed me from a trap. You cared for me while I was injured. You promised to give me aid. I took food from your hand. You’re Stiles Stilinski, and you are my lawfully wedded husband."

Speaking of hands, he has serious tingles from the calloused thumb stroking the palm of his captured hand. Stiles’ still-unnamed _husband_ tilts his head flirtatiously and lifts one finely shaped eyebrow. Absolutely none of this is charming or sexy. At all. Stiles almost succeeds in convincing himself of that until the guy ducks his head and grins in the most adorable, self-deprecating way. "It's not so different from human vows as it first seems."

Flailing with one hand is hardly satisfying, but Stiles gives it his best try. "I thought you were a wolf. A regular, furry wolf. Or an illegal hybrid dog. Not a werewolf. Are you fucking kidding me right now? _I don't even know your name._ " Stiles’ voice hits a pitch more expected from a boy soprano; his vocal cords might never be the same. 

Eyeing Stiles as though he might start flailing again, he takes a prudent step back and bows over the hand he has yet to release. “I’m Alpha Deucalion Blackwood of the Blackwood Pack. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly.” Introductions done, Deucalion frowns in puzzlement. "And no. What reason would I have to kid about that? Granted, it's a bit archaic, but still perfectly respectable—and legally binding." 

The words _legally binding_ are a bucket of cold water to his libido. This guy is actually serious. "Holy shit,” Stiles blurts out. “You really mean it. You’re saying that we did some kind of Vegas wedding, shifter-style, and we didn't even get the drunk sex. _Oh my god._ Please, tell me this was a sex-free, non-consummated marriage. I did not sign up for full-on shifted sex—and hey!” Stiles squints at his werewolf “husband”. It would be exactly the way his life goes if he rescued the proverbial prince in disguise and winds up with a perverted stalker. “How’d you find me again?" 

"Full-shift sex…?” he sighs. “Of course not. I believe that informed consent is an important part of any relationship.” Deucalion pats his hand. “I found you because you have a distinct smell, and werewolves don't lose their abilities for human reasoning while we're shifted. Remembering your name, then tracking you here was a simple matter." Stiles definitely hears an unspoken judgement floating in the air.

“Oh. I guess I am a pretty pungent person. That totally explains it.” Except it doesn’t explain anything. At all. Clearly, Stiles is dealing with a crazy man. Best to smile and nod until they can clear up the misunderstanding. Or until Deucalion detects whatever whacked out chemosignals Stiles is giving off and his face falls. Stiles feels a brief pang of regret for how disappointed the guy seems, but he can’t be accidentally married to the Alpha of one of the most prestigious packs in North America. That’s just too much disbelief to suspend.

Still frowning, he releases Stiles’ hand, allowing it to slowly slip from his grasp as though he’s trying to extend their contact as long as possible. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You talked about being close to a pack and other werewolves. I suppose I assumed you were aware of the underlying significance of your actions. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Deucalion reaches into his cardigan pocket and withdraws a tastefully minimalist card in ecru. “Here’s my contact information for when you want to discuss the matter. I await your call.”

“Your card. Sure. I’ll… I’ll do that. I’ll call.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his hair and tugs. He’s not sure what kind of face he’s making, but Deucalion looks like he’s being stabbed in the foot. Shit. _Werewolf._ He can hear the lie. “You get that you just dropped a bomb on me, right?” He sighs and grabs his alleged husband’s hand. “So slow down and let me wrap my head around this. Talk to a few people.”

“But not me?” When Deucalion tilts his head in a move that’s more similar to a bird than a wolf. His confusion is not endearing. It’s creepy and indicative of such a great cultural divide that Stiles needs to run in the opposite direction. And yet.

“Damn it… You don’t make this easy on a guy.” Stiles sighs again, glances down at the card. “Fine. I promise. I really will call in a few days, okay? Scout’s honor.”

Deucalion chuckles. He ducks down and presses a chaste kiss to Stiles’ fingertips. “Good,” he breathes out. “I hope you can depend on me one day.” Then he gently lays it back atop the keyboard like it’s worth its weight in gold, placing the card under his palm. “Until then, Stiles.”

Everyone in Cups stares at them while the alpha strolls out, cool as you please.

“So. Married.” Stiles bangs his head on the edge of the table, but lightly. The brain damage must be severe if he’s having hallucinations like this. “Hey, Erica,” he addresses his tabletop. It’s a nice brown with swirls that are almost mahogany—very classy. Maybe his hospital room will have something like it.

“Yes, Stiles?”

“Did that….”

Erica, his favorite barista, cackles at his distress. She probably heard the whole thing from the counter and spectated on his shame instead of helping a bro out. “Did that fine-as-fuck alpha werewolf just walk in here and say you’re his husband? You bet your sweet ass he did. Hold on. I’ll be right over.” Stiles listens to her take a few orders, enjoying the blessed darkness of his tabletop. It was really there for him during this trying encounter. After a few minutes, the customers have their coffees and the bakery case thunks shut, so Stiles drags himself into an upright position.

“Yo, Charles! Get out here. I’m taking five!”

“I’m making more buttercream! People can wait for you if they want something!”

“You’re the boss, Boss!” She shrugs at Stiles like “what can you do” and swings a neighboring chair around, propping her chin on the backrest. “Seriously, Stiles. That was _Deucalion Blackwood_. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. He was raised a little Old World, but he’s sweet and richer than Croesus. I mean, according to the supernatural grapevine.”

“Shit.” This whole thing is sounding more and more legit, if he’s really one the high muckety-mucks of werewolf society. He rewinds through her statement, and makes a face. “And really? You’d jump on that grenade for me? What about Boyd?”

“Mm-hmm. Boyd would totally understand. It would all be for the greater good, and I’d make sure he was taken care of afterward. I’m not _completely_ heartless.” Erica winks and tosses her long, blonde hair which she refuses to cover with a hair net. Stiles can’t hear anything, but she cocks her head and makes a face before bouncing to her feet. She even turns the chair back around and parks it under the right table. “My five is almost up, but you probably want to give your dad a call before the gossip hits. It’s big news if the Blackwood’s alpha found a mate after all this time.”

Stiles groans. “I was just trying to do something nice for once.”

“Cheer up, kid.” He turns around to see Charles, a muscular, tattooed mountain of a man who happens to be a bonafide pastry genius. A plate thunks down, bearing a gigantic slice of chocolate cake. It’s dark with smashed raspberries peeking out between the layers, garnished with chocolate curls and hazelnuts. It looks like exactly what he needs right now, but… responsibilities call. With only one wistful glance at the cake, he stands and starts to pull his belongings together. 

“Sorry, Charles. Could I get a box for this? Sounds like I should see my dad and handle some business.”

“No problem, Stiles.” A big hand lands on his shoulder, patting awkwardly. “Try not to worry so much. I wouldn’t want you getting writer’s block before we find out if Javier is ever going to claim his mate.”

“Charles,” Stiles pauses in packing up his computer bag. “You are a good and true friend. A provider of cake and the beverage of life. I promise, if all of this works out, then you’ll be the first to know what happens to Javier and Allen.”

* * *

In the limited privacy of his jeep, Stiles yanks out his phone and speed dials one for his dad. This definitely counts as an emergency. His hands shake as the phone rings. One, two, three… and there he is.

“Son, I’m a little busy, can this wait a few hours?”

Stiles drags in a deep breath. “Nope. Sorry. Can’t wait.”

“Stiles,” his father sounds worried. “What’s wrong? Do I need to come get you? Is it Scott? I thought you were writing at Cups today.”

“Well. It’s a funny story, Dad. But you remember that dog-wolf?”

“Shit, is that mutt back?”

He giggles. Maniacally. The whole situation is hilarious if you look at it in the right light. “You could say that.”

“Stiles…”

“Congratulations! It’s an alpha werewolf who claims you have a new son-in-law.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Son. Get your ass down to my office ASAP. I’ll call Talia Hale. See if she can take an emergency meeting.”

“Roger that.”

“I love you. Drive safe. Wear your seatbelt.”

“Love you too, Dad. I’ll be the safest thing to ever safe. You’ll need to get a locksmith for me.”

After the call disconnects, Stiles stares down at his phone until it goes dark. Then he buckles up and throws the jeep into reverse. This is good. Talia’s great. If anyone will know about this so-called archaic wedding tradition, then it’ll be her or Peter.

Deucalion is hot. He’s rich. He probably has tons of people happy to take him. Hell, Erica is at the front of the line. It’s all one big mistake, and he’ll be relieved when Stiles tells him that he won’t be stuck with some weird guy who makes a living from writing gay porn.

If Stiles spends the entire drive to the BHSD telling himself that he’s not intrigued at all by his maybe-husband, then that’s irrelevant. Soon, everything will be back to normal. Stiles knows who and what he is. He’s got a reasonable level of self-worth, but he’s also self-aware. He’s not one of the hot characters from his novels. He’s 160 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. He’s a twenty-six year old asshole who lives in a converted apartment above his dad’s garage. So far his only real talents lie in sarcasm and erotic, gay wish fulfillment. 

Stiles can face the facts: Deucalion Blackwood is so far out of his league that he might as well live on the moon, and the alpha will realize it before too long.

* * *

Stiles jerks up, startled away from scavenging leftover hazelnuts out of the cake box. “Excuse me. But I could swear you just said that it really is a _legal_ form of marriage in werewolf culture. But I must be wrong. Because that is _insane_.”

“You heard correctly, Stiles.” Talia looks apologetic, but apologies won’t help him now. He didn’t bring awesome cake to someone who was going to be a quitter.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? How are you not all married to EMTs or first responders?”

“To be fair, we don’t usually require that type of mundane assistance—except in cases of hunter interference.” Peter leans over the conference table to forage through the abandoned hazelnuts. “You mentioned something about a trap?”

“Yeah, I reported it to dad since there was an animal trap in a public park but no wolfsbane. That’s why I didn’t think he was a werewolf.”

“Curious and curiouser,” Peter murmurs. “I find it hard to believe that he was specifically targeted by such a crude device, but he _has_ made a lot of enemies.”

“Excuse me if I don’t really give a crap if anyone’s out to kill Blackwood. What are we going to do about this marriage? Can’t it be annulled? Cancelled? Just _something_?” John grimaces. “It doesn’t sit right with me that he can come sweeping in and claim my son like a trophy,” he mutters.

“John.” Talia lays a slim hand on his arm, an alpha’s soothing touch. The Stilinskis may not belong to a pack, but if they did, it would be the Hales. “I can understand why it seems that way to you, but that’s not what this is.”

“Well, it sure seems like it from the human end.”

She continues the explanation, “First, the spouse isn’t always human. In fact, it was almost exclusively a werewolf method. It was a symbolic gesture, and acceptance of help and food meant accepting the relationship. According to the law, ignorance is no excuse; it doesn’t actually matter that Stiles was unaware of just what he was signalling. For someone raised with the old traditions, it’s quite romantic. It’s very likely that’s what made him seek out your son afterwards.”

Stiles struggles not to blow a gasket at Alpha Hale. He counts backwards from ten and does it again. After several repetitions, he feels calm enough to say, “He just crashed into my life and said we’re husbands now because _he thought that I was being romantic_?”

Peter laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I doubt he assumed you were romancing him or even knew that obscure bit of lore, but he must have seen something of you that he wanted to keep. At least for a year a day.”

The Sheriff perks up, “That sounds like a time limit to me.”

Stiles frowns, “I’ve read about this. One of my historical novels was set in Scotland. That’s the traditional length of time for a handfasting. Basically a trial marriage, right?”

“Ding ding ding!” drawls Peter. “We have a winner.”

Talia shoots a look at her brother. “Yes, Stiles. That’s a good way of putting it. This form of marriage isn’t meant to be permanent, but it is legal. There’s enough precedent that Alpha Blackwood could sue you for breach of contract if you denied the marriage.” At the panicky look he shoots his dad, she adds, “Now, I know Deucalion. I can’t imagine he’d take this to court, but it puts you in an awkward position if you’re dead set against it. He’s a good man, although…” she clears her throat, “undereducated about human culture.”

Peter snorts, “Don’t bother with subtlety. What my lovely sister was tiptoeing around is that the Blackwoods had their bouncing baby boy late in life and liked to forget they were in the New World. They gave their heir a traditional education—which includes limited contact with mundane humans and too much emphasis on lore.” He steeples his fingers in thought. “Hmm. Think of Deucalion as one of those unfortunates from home school. He’s nearly all good intentions and idealism, though I try to corrupt him when I can.”

“Oi! Let’s get back to the part about me being sued for everything I don’t have.” Stiles shifts in the seat to give Talia his full attention, “That means it’s okay if we don’t work out in a year a day, no harm no foul?”

“There’s absolutely no penalties for either party,” she assures. “Other than the time spent and whatever gifts were exchanged, you won’t be liable for anything.”

“Essentially.” Peter stretches his arm out and stabs a raspberry off of Stiles’ plate. “I advise you to let the man court you. He’ll do his best to show you what he can offer you: emotionally, physically, materially. If it works, then you’ll be married to someone you like. If it doesn’t, then you’re entitled to keep any gifts you receive. Even if I hated him, I’d smile and take the man for all he was worth.”

“But what about that alpha?” John butts in. “Does Deucalion get to call things off too?”

He can’t stop the momentary tightness in his throat at the thought of Deucalion changing his mind. When Peter narrows his eyes at Stiles, he tries to reel back his response into something resembling apathy. Judging from the significant looks exchanged by the Hales, his efforts aren’t super effective. There’s some pretty intense eyebrow conversation for a few seconds before both of their faces take on pleasant, neutral expressions. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. _Werewolves._ Then Talia turns back to his dad and pats his arm in pre-emptive comfort.

“Everything which is not forbidden is allowed. He can, but it’s unnatural. Taboo.” Talia parts her lips to continue but closes them each time, as though she has tried and failed to find the right words to express such a fundamental werewolf concept. She looks honestly distressed at the thought of Deucalion breaking the handfasting. “It’s probably happened fewer than a dozen times in the last five hundred years. He _accepted_ Stiles’ offer and pursued the marriage. It’s unthinkable that he’d be the one to reject it. Blood feud has been declared over less.”

“It’s 2015,” John interrupts. “I think we’re all past blood feuds by now.”

“Be that as it may—”

“We’re getting a bit far afield, everyone. What that means for Stiles is that a divorce is up to him.” Peter shrugs and sets the cake box aside now that he’s eaten all the fallen hazelnuts and raspberries. “The ball’s in his court.”

John gets out of his chair and hugs Stiles. “I’ll support you no matter what you decide. Even if it’s that you want to have nothing to do with him until you deny him when your year is up.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he says, voice muffled by his dad’s uniform shirt. “And thanks for the intel, Peter. And Talia.”

“Certainly, Stiles.” Peter nudges his foot under the table with one of his Italian leather shoes. “I do like you.”

“Of course, Stiles. John.” Talia nods, regal as a queen. “I’ll do whatever I can to help if it’s in my power. I remember how you went above and beyond the call of duty when we had to deal with Kate, and I can do no less for your family. The Hale Pack owes you a debt of gratitude and more.”

“You’re good people, Talia.” John releases Stiles and shakes her hand in both of his. “If you could get us whatever info you have on this handfasting wedding thing, then I’d appreciate it.”

“Then I’ll head back with Peter right now. It’s nearly time for dinner.” She and Peter stand in unison, and identical, subtle twitches coax the lines of their clothes to smooth out like magic; Stiles wouldn’t put it past them if it really was magic. “I’ll set up a meeting with Deucalion, alpha to alpha, and Peter can go through our digital archive. He’ll stop by later this evening, and we’ll be sure to send Stiles any other records he needs.”

Peter winks. “Anything for my favorite little writer.”

“Really Peter?” he whines. There’s nothing else to do but bury his face in the second table of the day. “Why does it always come back around to the porn?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Alt and Jo for looking at both versions of this chapter. :D I don't know what I'd do without all of your encouragement.
> 
> Tickling happens in this chapter, but the characters involved don't see it as a big deal or anything.

Deucalion approaches the heavy oaken door without the spring in his step from earlier this afternoon. What he wants right now is to assuage his wounded pride in peace. With a bit of good fortune, everyone will be out for the rest of the day.

Of course, the door chooses that moment to swing open with a bang, revealing the hulking figure of his best friend.

“All hail the conquering hero,” Ennis drawls. His lips quirk at Deucalion’s damning lack of husband, and he takes an exaggerated sniff. “Oh boy.” He whistles lowly. “It went that well, huh?”

“Oh do shut up, Ennis.” He scowls. “I was simply laboring under certain, very understandable, misapprehensions about my intended bondmate.”

“He didn’t take it well at all did he?” Ennis bumps his arm into Deucalion’s shoulder as he passes the threshold. “Better luck next time, old chum.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.” Deucalion shakes his head, dropping his keys into the hideous bowl that continues to outlive any _accidents_. It looks like a durian mated with a poodle made out of spaghetti. Julia always swears that the wards placed on it by her predecessor are simply too robust for her to break. He’s certain that one day, his mother’s revenge will be complete, and it will take over the house. “No, he took it quite well. For someone who was completely unaware of what had occurred.”

“What?”

“Oh yes. Totally oblivious. He said, and I quote, ‘I think I’d remember the ceremony dude.’ Perhaps it wasn’t my finest moment when he rescued me, but I thought I’d made my intentions clear.”

Ennis doubles over and shouts in laughter. “Made your intentions clear? You poor bastard. How? By licking the kid with _feeling_?” He switches to a falsetto and clasps Deucalion’s hands in an iron grip. “Oh, Ennis. My intended is so beautiful and clever. He talked to me as though I weren’t just a dumb beast and was so gentle with my wounds. His skin tasted like sugar, and he smelled like all the best things in the world. I knew he was the one.” Ennis flutters ridiculously long eyelashes and swoons into his arms. For a glorious moment, he considers not catching Ennis, it’s not as though he won’t heal even if he cracks his head open all over the foyer. 

“Oooh, take me now, you wild stallion!”

Deucalion might be an alpha werewolf, but Ennis is well over six feet of muscles. He’s even heavier than he looks, so Deucalion grunts when all of that deadweight lands on him. “I hate you. And you can’t pretend to be both of us in the same scene. You haven’t even met him—Stiles.” Deucalion feels the unbidden smile creep onto his face from simply saying his name. It’s far too soon for his husband to be so dear, and yet he can’t deny the surge of affection that flows through him at the very thought of Stiles.

“Ha!” Ennis pounds him on the shoulder and springs out of his arms. “You love me and think I’m hilarious. That’s why you keep me around. But seriously, Deuc. You are like a brother to me, and I love you, but you’re fucking dense when it comes to were-human courtship in the twenty-first century. Your high society shit isn’t gonna cut it out here. You should have taken my advice and asked the Hale Pack to approach him as an intermediary because let me guess... That’s what’s going to happen anyway isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Probably?” One corner of his mouth turns down. “He said he needed time. That he would talk to a few people. I can only assume that includes the Hales, but I was wrong about things before… he’s not even officially part of a pack.”

His friend frowns; it might be intimidating if he didn’t know such a fierce look was pure concern. “You’re really torn up about this aren’t you?”

“Ennis, I wouldn’t have told him we were married if I didn’t like him. He’s smart and interesting. And yes, before you say anything. He smells divine. I’d make a feast of him spread out in my bed. Better marriages have started with less.”

Ennis stares into his eyes like he’s looking for a sign. He seems to find it because he grins and crushes him in a bear hug. “Okay then! I’ll call up the twins. They’re closer to his age, so that might help. I think they’ve run with some of the younger Hales a few times. Maybe they’ll know him or something about him.” He scrubs one massive fist over Deucalion’s hair and beams down at him. “Best of all, you’ve got me! I’m great at wooing. With my help, your gifts are going to be _amazing_.”

“Kali and Julia nearly had to knock you unconscious and drag you off before you noticed their overtures went beyond _friendly_. I’m told that they still had to use very small words to explain.”

“Yeah, well.” It’s fascinating to see how red Ennis’ scalp turns. “Lots of men harass women who prefer other women and make ugly assumptions about their needs. If I was oblivious, then it was because I’d never presume that they needed a man in their relationship to be fulfilled.” Ennis grins down, disgustingly soppy and in love. “I got it in the end,” he mutters gruffly, “And if I have anything to say about it, so will you.”

His friends and packmates are overbearing, a bit broken, and far too interested in his business, but he’s never felt so lucky that these alphas chose to follow him after the crushing loss of their packs. With their help, perhaps he’ll be the groom at a real wedding. Perhaps, forty-eight weeks will be enough time for Stiles to fall in love with him.

“I don’t know if I’m terrified or touched at the thought of your help.”

“Hey, I’m awesome at this romance shit. Kali and Julia have no complaints in that department! I romanced the shit out of them once I knew what they wanted.”

“I see.” Deucalion levels an amused look at him. “I seem to recall things going a bit differently.” 

Ennis jabs him in the ribs. “Yeah, yeah. And who’s the one happily mated and married? Oh, that’s right. _I am._ So why don’t you tell me how you mucked it up, and I’ll help you win your boy out of the kindness of my heart.”

Odious as it is, the man has a point. Deucalion surrenders to his fate instead of waiting for the rest of the pack to gang up on him and titter over his awkwardness. “If you insist! At first he didn’t even notice that I was standing beside him…”

* * *

Stiles starts fidgeting the second after he gets his butt in the cruiser. Even with the ADHD, he’s outgrown a lot of his nervous tics and the need to be in constant motion, but stress always sets him off. So he drums his fingers on the window, taps his feet, and plays with the lock until his dad looks at him over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses. It’s a look that brings every ounce of John Stilinski’s judgmental cop persona to bear, and Stiles does not appreciate it one bit. He’s suffering here. In genuine turmoil. Probably. When he pouts, the cop look melts, and his dad gives him an awkward pat on the knee as consolation. Stiles slumps in the seat and decides to be gracious in his victory, so he tries counting breaths for the rest of the drive.

It’s a long fifteen minutes.

When they pull up to the Stilinski house, he jolts in surprise before remembering that Peter’s supposed to drop by. God, they’ll probably need to feed him, and who knows what horrors lurk in his dad’s kitchen. Stiles winces at the thought of whatever sentient life is developing its own system of government in the crisper drawer.

“Stiles.” John shakes him out of his contemplation of lettuce rebellions. His dad looks tired after the day they’ve had, and it’s not even done. Guilt sucker punches him at the realization. John Stilinski isn’t getting any younger, and he’s already spent two and a half decades chasing after Stiles and getting him out of trouble. All of that should be done now that Stiles is a real adult with his own place and all the outward trappings of functionality.

“Yeah, I’m coming. I’m coming.” He unbuckles himself and jumps out of the cruiser, cradling his laptop bag like the precious cargo it is. “So are we ordering in to hide your shame, or are we cooking?”

“I think we all deserve fat and cholesterol after the day we’ve had.”

“Ugh, Dad. You’re the worst,” Stiles protests, but his heart isn’t in it. Grease and empty calories sound like just what the doctor ordered. “I guess it’ll take Peter a while to get the research together, so we could order out.”

“I knew you’d see things my way.” John shuts the door behind Stiles and hangs up his keys. “Now, I’m open to suggestions, but not that Thai place. All those peppers gave me heartburn.”

“You’re just feeling betrayed because you believed Scott when he said they were probably sun-dried tomatoes. He’s the one who thought wasabi was guacamole.” He puts his laptop down on the kitchen table and looks at the colorful assortment of stained menus stuck to the fridge. “What about pizza? Only authentic tomatoes there.”

“Grab me the orange juice? I was thinking Lana’s. We could split some pelmeni and pirozhki.”

Stiles opens up the fridge with a beleaguered sigh. “If you insist.” He grabs the carton, pops open the top, and takes a swig. “Oh my god, Dad. Pulp-free? You _heathen_.” Stiles gags and deposits the juice on the counter. “Ugh. Just call in the order. I need a palate cleanser after that.”

* * *

Because Peter has impeccable timing, he doesn’t arrive until after they finish the dishes. Stiles can almost swear that he heard the car pull up a full ten minutes before Peter knocks at the door, but he’ll keep that little nugget to himself this time—as long as Peter has something useful for them.

They hold their peace as Peter settles on their couch and unloads his laptop and a few fabric-wrapped books from his fancy, leather briefcase. “These are a bit fragile, but they can stand to be out in the world for this.” He quirks a grin at Stiles’ covetous expression. “I still need you to be careful while you’re borrowing them, or Talia will have my head.”

“They’ll be returned in the same condition,” John assures Peter since Stiles is already muttering to himself and flipping through the pages.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful. Just like my own children,” he mutters.

“Son, if I’ve got grandkids running around, then I’d hope you would have told me about it.”

He waves it off. “Just an expression, Dad.” He tunes out the rest of their conversation. Something about the historical importance of handfasting in werewolf culture. His finger skims yellowed pages, a hairsbreadth from making contact with the old-fashioned type, when he hears “like a debutante”.

Stiles bolts upright, away from the book in his lap. “Say what now?”

Peter, the traitor, smirks at him. “I was just telling your father that before you go too far into the handfasting process, it’s expected for a party to be held in your honor.”

“A party,” Stiles repeats flatly. “Handfasting is supposed to be like a wedding, so I’d expect a reception. But you specifically said ‘debutante’. I heard the word come out of your mouth, so don’t try to twist your way out of this one.”

“Well,” Peter hedges, “how do I put this?” He strokes his goatee in an ostentatious display of contemplation. “Imagine werewolves as the _ton_. Now imagine that there is a social season which often culminates in a disproportionate number of handfastings and marriages. In some of the more traditional areas, there are still courting events held every spring. They have huge social importance, where we gather to mingle and possibly impress each other, individually and as packs.”

“And…” Stiles trails off expectantly. 

“And the Blackwoods are originally from England and then resettled in New England. They’re as blue-blooded as werewolves get. It’s all old money and older blood out there. It goes without question that he’ll want to host some type of event to present you to society as his mate… and to give others a chance to try to change your mind before it’s permanent.” Peter muses, “I do have to admit that I never thought he’d insist on handfasting by a technicality though. There’s usually quite a bit more to it since you _are_ agreeing to spend a year in lawfully wedded bliss with someone.”

Stiles blinks. He looks down at the book in his lap. The words aren’t moving. They’re still in English. And yet, he can’t help but feel that he’s sliding sideways through reality with every new revelation about werewolf high society. Or even the fact that werewolf high society sounds more like the Society for Creative Anachronism than anything else. 

He snorts out a laugh. “Oh my god. You’re seriously telling me that I’m supposed to have some kind of reverse coming out ball? Will I need a chaperone too? Why Peter!” He sprawls out on the cushions and flutters his lashes. “I don’t even know how to waltz or flirt with my fan! I do declare, I’ll just eat my best slippers if Derek finds a beau before I do!”

His dad sighs. “Peter. While my son is ridiculous, I have to agree with him. I’m pretty lost about all this stuff. I don’t mean to be bigoted. I know that not all werewolves are the same, but every werewolf I’ve met has been like you Hales. You’re all very… casual. More interested in being out in the Preserve instead of holding parties and making nice with other packs. With the privacy laws to protect sacred lore and then all the misinformation, it’s hard to get a good idea of what to expect.”

“Sheriff, you’re not wrong about things being a little different out here,” Peter acknowledges. “There are several reasons for that. Chief among them were the irreconcilable ideological differences that led to a sort of… migration.” 

“Migration?” His dad takes a swig of his beer. He doesn’t look very impressed with Peter’s story time so far. 

“Fifty-four forty or fight. Go west young man.” At their blank expressions, he sings, “Give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above. Don’t fence me in.”

John eyes him in vague disbelief. “Did you seriously just throw out a bunch of slogans and _sing a song_ to explain that werewolves wanted to get back to nature? 

“Guilty as charged, but there’s a grain of truth to it. Most of us would invoke Privacy before telling you this, but supernatural beings have spent the last few hundred years forgetting ourselves, becoming toothless so that humanity would stop trying to wipe us out. Of course, there was resentment. Ever since the Revelation, parts of supernatural society just wanted to return to the days of secrecy, return to the land. There has always been a small but vocal minority that chose to reject what they perceived as sanitization of our culture. Those are the people who talk about being true to their inner wolves.” Peter’s lip curls. “It’s wide-eyed idealism at best and fanaticism at its worst. But, to make a long story short, that’s why you won’t see a courting season or handfastings out here. Those practices had become too tainted by humans.” He slants a look at them both. “Obviously, the distaste for human _taint_ isn’t the issue now. Those things have simply fallen out of practice here. Like jumping the broom, it’s considered beyond old-fashioned.”

“Right. You guys don’t hate mingling with puny humans anymore. Great. Now let’s rewind a second.” Stiles props his head up on the arm of the couch. This is like all his Christmases come at once. Peter never shares this much information with this little prodding. “What you’re telling me is… your family came out here to be one with the land? You are actually descended from radical werewolf hippies.”

Peter rolls his eyes so far back that Stiles thinks he would have sprained something. “That’s your takeaway? I’ll have you know that James Hale was the black sheep of the family. A right scoundrel who was quick with a gun and quicker with his claws. He came to California just before the Gold Rush. He’s the reason this town exists now. He and his emissary found the Nemeton on their claim and more like-minded Hales followed.” 

“Peter.” John sent a warning look at Stiles. “You said that they considered handfasting too human?”

“Werewolves began to mesh more completely with European human cultures around the eighteenth century. There aren’t many references to ‘marriage’ until then, so the common assumption is that we didn’t find it necessary to formalize our pairings to the same degree as humans. Some scholars suggest that they took the general concept of handfasting as a screen against human judgements of immorality. 

Stiles picks up a cushion, gesturing sharply in protest. “Handfasting is from an earlier time though. It was way more common before the eighteenth century. I did a bunch of research for that book, and what happened between us wouldn’t have been legal after 1753—so explain that!”

“Werewolves continued to practice clandestine marriage despite the law. Somehow we didn’t have many complaints about it. And I don’t think you’ve considered the most important fact: we’re not human.” Peter lets out an artful, little gasp and brings a hand to his face in shock. “I’m sure it just slipped your mind in all the excitement, but all duly registered marriage customs are covered under the Supernatural Sovereignty Act. Even when one of the participants is human. It galls me to admit it, but the traditions held by the European packs and the Blackwoods are some of the most pure examples that we have left. The oldest lore we have as a species is passed down orally, and apparently, our ancestors didn’t find courtship interesting enough to leave us much guidance. So yes, this bastardized version of handfasting is among the customs we have on file with the federal government.”

Stiles squawks, “Oh my god. The most pure courtship practices you have are from the Middle Ages, and I’d be better off reading Highland romances and Jane Austen for research. Is that really what you’re telling me here?”

“I’m not saying it again, Stiles.” Peter crosses his arms and flares his eyes, but Stiles knows better than to be intimidated by such a mild display of pseudo-menace. 

“But Peter… I need to know something. For science! Have you ever worn a cravat? Oooh. What about a kilt? Did you go regimental? When you went to Princeton, did you have your very own werewolf debutante? Do you have a dowry?” And because Stiles has never met a button he doesn’t want to push, he leans forward to whisper, “Did you fill your very own hope chest?”

“Excuse me, Sheriff.” Before Stiles can open his mouth again, Peter’s sitting on his back and shoving his face into the couch cushions—but gently. He squirms ineffectually under the werewolf’s superior strength before giving up and going boneless.

Peter wiggles a bit, carefully settling his weight on top of Stiles, and continues. “Talia loves the romance of handfasting and courting—as did our father. They have a lot in common with the New York Hales. No small number of the cousins have gone through the same thing you’re experiencing now. With the exception of my sister, the rest of us chose to date like regular humans. You, on the other hand, can almost certainly expect an offering of property or material goods—”

“You mean like a dowry?”

“Or something similar.” Peter digs his fingers into the ticklish spot on Stiles’ ribs. Stiles shouts in laughter, twisting in vain to escape the preternaturally quick hands. He seems content to torment Stiles until a particularly violent convulsion almost bucks Peter from his perch. Satisfied with that response, Peter goes back to the explanation. “Yes, Stiles. Like a _dowry_. There’s a possibility of three formal gifts to the family—not counting any gifts to the bondmate, of course. The first is usually given at the beginning of the year, the second at the midpoint, and the third after the year has passed. With _his_ pack, the gifts could be anything… his parents have a reputation for eccentricity, and some of it did rub off on him despite my best efforts.” 

Even though Peter’s seated atop Stiles, he faces John with all seriousness. “You’re the head of the pack, as it were, which makes you in charge of accepting or declining any gifts to the family. Accepting them doesn’t mean Stiles can’t turn him down at the end, so just smile and take it. Unless it’s truly objectionable. Here’s the fun part. Since Stiles is the one who proposed, he’s already made the most valuable offer. It’s Deucalion’s duty to match it. So you get the pleasure of rejecting all sorts of perfectly suitable gifts just to make him try again.” He pats the cushion now covering Stiles’ head. “See, it’ll be fun for the whole family.”

“The fun part?” His dad sounds skeptical, so Stiles lets the cushion fall to the floor as he cranes his head around to look. “Isn’t that insulting to arbitrarily reject the man’s offers?”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” Peter assures them. “You _could_ accept the first things he offers, but what’s the point? It makes you seem easy. Besides, you want your mate to be someone who isn’t afraid to put a little work into hunting for you. My advice is to hold out for a new car. He can definitely afford it.”

At the threat to his dilapidated jeep, Stiles finds a burst of strength and manages to shove Peter off of his back. “Ugh. Jerk,” he mutters. “I feel like I should be checking everything that comes out of your mouth with at least three primary sources.”

Peter sniffs and brushes non-existent lint from his pants. Once assured of his cleanliness, he slides back onto the couch beside Stiles and tucks him under his arm. “Trust me, Stiles.” He beams down at him with an angelic smile. Butter wouldn’t melt in Peter Hale’s mouth, even as he leads you into hell. “Would I steer you wrong?”

* * *

A week passes with no word from Deucalion or Talia, his recently agreed upon liaison to the Blackwood pack. Stiles has been back in his own apartment after the first night since the only danger he’s facing is not meeting his deadline.

In the scheme of things, seven days isn’t very long, but it’s enough to make something in him start to relax. Maybe Deucalion’s ready to withdraw from the handfasting after their one catastrophic meeting at Cups. If he feels a certain vague wistfulness, well then. He’s not made of stone. Deucalion had been handsome and charming, and according to gossip he’s a well-educated and socially liberal alpha despite his old-fashioned courtliness. None of that means that Stiles is _disappointed_. That’s ridiculous, illogical. Especially when Stiles is the one who’s supposed to initiate any further contact with his… husband.

The business card with Deucalion’s personal number had given him guilty spasms every time he looked at it, sitting innocently his dresser. So what if he had promised to call in a few days? Seven is a few. So is eight or nine or… however many it turned into. But guilt is definitely not one of Stiles’ favorite feelings, so now the card is buried under the long johns that his grandma sends him every Christmas.

When Stiles’ phone vibrates off his desk while blaring his dad’s ringtone, he hurries to scoop it up and take the call. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Son,” his dad grunts. “I think we just got the first of the gifts.” 

Stiles frowns. “For you or me?”

“Both of us.” He sounds exasperated but also the tiniest bit amused. “Looks like your husband’s not one to waste time.”

“They were both delivered to you?”

“Well, one of them directly involves the house…” 

“And the other one?” prompts Stiles.

“I don’t think it would all fit in your apartment. I’m not entirely sure it’ll fit here.”

His stomach knots in anxiety (and absolutely zero excitement). “ _What_ won’t fit, Dad?”

“The people who came with the truck say it’s all books? They gave me an inventory for you to review.”

“What about you? It’s for the house?”

“Yeah. Apparently, I’ve got carte blanche to have any work done on the house and yard that I need or want, including furnishings. The letter says that he noticed some things that could use the work. You know, when he was here recuperating as a dog.” His dad snorts. “And we have the beginnings of a mold problem.”

“That’s… a lot. I mean, carte blanche, really? You can fix the leaky roof. Remodel the kitchen with all-new cabinets and counters. Take care of the mold. Get an incredibly expensive recliner you don’t need. It sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”

“Stiles.” His dad sighs. “It _is_ a generous gift. And well-meant, but I don’t know if I feel comfortable taking it. It’s just a little too much like selling my kid.”

“No, Dad. No. It’s totally not like that. I mean. It is, but also not? Just, listen.” Stiles tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder and wipes sweaty palms on the knees of his khakis. “From what I understand, he wants to show that he has something to offer us. That I’m not stuck with someone who can’t pull his share of the load. And. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have this. It’s a no-strings offer to fix all the stuff in the house and update everything.” He firms up his voice. “I want you to take it. You’ll be able to do everything you wanted and couldn’t afford. Besides, it’s like Peter said. It doesn’t mean you’re selling me for a new stove. It’s not a bribe or a dowry. It’s a token of respect from one alpha to another.”

“As long as you’re sure.” He still sounds hesitant. “You know that I’m on your side, Stiles, and I want to show that every step of the way.”

“I know, Dad.” His throat closes up for a second. “You’re the best. I’ll come over in a little while and look at the book inventory. Figure out if I’m going send it back.”

“Okay, kid. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, old man. I’ll let you know when I’m headed over.”

He hangs up, a jittery mess. His day is blown now. He’s too distracted to work on Javier and Allen’s HEA after all this.

“Well shit.” Stiles scrubs his face in his hands. “That cheeky fucker. Fix my dad’s house and send me books will you?” he mutters in grudging admiration. “Well played, sir. Well played.” 

A moment later, he’s reading off the number and punching it into his phone. His finger hovers over the call button. “Just push the button, Stiles. You’re already married. It should be a snap to ask the dude to meet.”

He taps his finger against the screen before his can stop himself. One and a half rings later, the memorable voice is being piped directly into his ear. “Hello? Blackwood speaking.”

Stiles remains silent except for his breathing. It’s only been ten seconds, and Deucalion has turned him into some heavy-breathing creep.

“Hello?” _Shit._ Deucalion already sounds annoyed. “I can hear you breathing over the line.”

“Dad called,” he blurts out. “He got your gifts.”

“Stiles.” It should be illegal for a man with an accent like that to breathe out his name like a caress. “Did you like it?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look yet. I just wanted to let you know. And say sorry for not calling earlier.” Stiles squirms guiltily. “But maybe we can have coffee or something?”

“I’d love to see you again. I’ll make time whenever you’re available… I’m glad that you’re giving me another chance.” 

Deucalion sounds sincerely delighted at the prospect of having another awkward encounter with him. He can’t be real, but the Hales are crystal clear on this being legit, so Stiles throws caution to the wind. “Well, I have it on good authority that you saw something in me that made you want to share your life with me for a year. Or longer.” He hesitates. “I thought about it over the week, and um. I’d like that too. I think. If you’re still interested.”

“You’ll find that my interest is not so fleeting that I could marry a man and let him go without a fight.” His voice goes low and soft, “Believe me when I say that you’re worth the effort.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ face burns at the blunt declaration. “I’m glad you see how awesome I am!” he blusters. “Everyone else doesn’t know what they’re missing out on.”

“Their loss is my gain.”

“Right,” he agrees, halfway charmed in spite of himself. “I need to go over to my Dad’s place and look at your gift, but I’ll call you. For real this time,” Stiles assures him.

“I look forward to your call.”

“Tonight then.” Stiles disconnects the call before he can make any more hasty promises. “Uggh. That wasn’t so bad,” he comforts himself. “Now I just need to call my husband later and figure out where to go on our first date. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” He jumps up from his chair and stalks across the hall to throw himself face first onto his unmade bed.

There’s plenty of time for a quick round of primal screaming before he has to meet his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I abused history for purposes of plot. I flexed just about everything with a basis in historical fact, but here are a few things you might want more information on:
> 
> [Fifty-four](http://www.ushistory.org/us/29b.asp) [Forty or Fight!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oregon_boundary_dispute)
> 
> The Marriage Act 1753, full title "An Act for the Better Preventing of Clandestine Marriage", popularly known as Lord Hardwicke's Marriage Act (citation 26 Geo. II. c. 33), was the first statutory legislation in England and Wales to require a formal ceremony of marriage. More on [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marriage_Act_1753).
> 
> Don't Fence Me In - [Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters](https://youtu.be/vMnLoOnrwbg) or [The Killers](https://youtu.be/lq5vrpwdMGM%22)
> 
> This chapter has only been self-edited, so please let me know if you see a problem.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the update that I started _months_ ago. I'm not sure where the time went.
> 
> Special thanks to Mia for always being super excited about this story. It really helped me finish this chapter (though it's shorter than I originally intended).

K-pop videos play on the strategically placed screens inside Iron Age. The aggressively, cheery music is a balm since the only thing they’re doing is staring at the place settings. Actually, Stiles is the only one staring at the place settings. Deucalion sits across from him, staring like he’s considering the importance of public decency laws—or he might be contemplating where to hide a body. In Stiles’ experience, those are surprisingly similar expressions.

“Do you need a few more minutes, or are you ready to order?” The waiter’s crisp question interrupts their uncomfortable silence; it doesn’t help. 

The last time he’d gone to Korean BBQ with Kira, all the waitstaff had been old enough to be their mothers (or grandmothers) and happier speaking Korean than English. The fashionable, younger servers and their unaccented English was another layer of weird and unexpected. Instead of women who are convinced that he needs close supervision and shouldn’t be trusted with the meat scissors or grill controls, they have a smiling young man with an idol’s perfectly tousled hair and a nametag that says Victor. 

Stiles prefers the homely ambience and sticky tables of Star Daepo to this. Trying to eat in a nightclub that happens to include tables you can set on fire is a lot less fun than it might sound. 

Neon lights flash overhead, glinting on the shiny, metallic embellishments on Victor’s uniform, and Deucalion flinches. With a charming, apologetic smile, Deucalion turns to Victor.

“I’m sorry, the lights are a bit much for me.” He flicks his eyes back to where Stiles chugs down iced water like it’s going out of style. “What do you think, love? Almost ready?”

Stiles swallows the last of his giant mouthful and sputters, “Um, yeah. Just a few minutes. Sorry, Victor.”

“No trouble at all.” Victor winks at Deucalion and melts into the background of shifting shadows and meat smoke.

“So,” he whisper-yells, knowing that Deucalion can still hear him, “what do you think looks good? I’m torn between the green tea or bean paste samgyeopsal.” When there’s no response, he reaches for his mostly empty glass and pours ice chips into his mouth. He almost convinces himself that it’s not vindictive when he crunches.

 _Fuck._ He winces with Deucalion at a particularly vicious crunch. This date is a certifiable disaster, and now he’s being an asshole. 

“Look, Deucalion…” he searches for the right way to say his piece. “This just isn’t working. We can’t talk, and you’re just staring at me like you want to do illegal things to my corpse.” Stiles snorts at the look of affront on Deucalion’s face. “Yeah. Think about that. You’ve been giving me axe-murderer stare all night and didn’t even know it. Maybe we should both go home and think about our options.”

Across the table, Deucalion’s gaze sharpens. His lips part in what might be a growl or some other noise that Stiles can’t hear over the music. Despite the lights, Stiles can make out the faintest hint of scarlet iris until Deucalion blinks, revealing his usual pretty, blue eyes.

“Stiles,” he snaps, “did you purposely bring me to the least werewolf-friendly restaurant in what must be a twenty mile radius of your home?”

“Well, kind of?” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “But I blame Kira! She never told me that it was like this, and Scott—who let me just say is also a werewolf! All he said was that the food was good.”

“I see.”

Stiles’ stomach sinks at the closed-off expression on his husband’s face. Are things really over before they can even begin? “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“So you weren’t trying to sabotage our first date?”

“What?” Stiles’ mouth drops open. “No! I thought we should go somewhere nicer than my usual dinner options, and umm.” He gestures to the stunning reality of Iron Age. “This was just the regular, old Stilinski charm working its magic. _Ruining my life._ ”

Slow enough that Stiles can stop him if he wants, Deucalion leans forward and grabs Stiles’ hand. He lays a kiss on the back of it, and wow. His husband is too sweet when he’s not being creepy and entitled. Stiles makes a note to build up some resistance to the sweetness, or he can foresee future-Deucalion getting away with far too much. 

Deucalion releases a deep sigh that’s audible to Stiles, even with the music. “I find your brand of charm quite effective,” he teases. “Even if your lapse in research was unfortunate.”

Stiles relaxes, enjoying the feel of Deucalion’s smooth palm against his own. “I really am sorry.”

“That’s clear to me now, so I say that our date isn’t ruined. And I suggest that we find a more convivial location, something more suited to our preferences.” He smiles, complete with eye crinkles, brushing a thumb over Stiles’ pulse point. “What do you say?”

“You still want to date me then?”

“Darling.” Deucalion squeezes his hand. “We’re married. Of course, I do. I’m not going to let a few mishaps stand in the way of getting to know you while you’re aware.”

“Oh, well that’s good. Everyone aware and consenting is A plus in my book.” Stiles wants to address that bit later, since the whole thing where Deucalion was creeping on him as an injured dog-wolf-thing is incredibly sketchy, but when he tangles his fingers with Deucalion’s, he can’t deny the fluttering in his chest. It might even be in the region of his heart. Heat rises in his face, and he hopes that the erratic lighting conceals his lapse.

“Shall we?”

“But wait. We already sat down and everything.” Stiles twists in his chair, searching for Victor. “Shouldn’t we, um, tough it out?”

“We haven’t even ordered yet, and we both hate it here,” Deucalion points out. With one hand, he pulls out his wallet and drops a few bills on the table. Stiles blinks and Ulysses S. Grant’s happy face disappears with his anonymous companion, neatly tucked halfway under a napkin.

“There. That should be sufficient for the inconvenience of seating us.”

Stiles sits there, still in a bemused state of shock at the change in his fortunes, until Deucalion tugs him out of his seat and into a decorous scenting, holding his hand all the while. Deucalion murmurs against his temple, “I hope you don’t mind, but you understand why I’ll want to choose our next destination?”

* * *

Brimming over with good cheer (and relief), Deucalion takes Stiles back to historic downtown Beacon Hills as they seem to be Stiles’ usual stomping grounds. And yes, he finds it immensely gratifying to show off his knowledge of Lavender’s, a tiny restaurant hiding in the same building as a financial office and a nail salon.

Without removing his hand from the small of Stiles’ back, Deucalion applies a judicious amount of werewolf speed to put his other hand on the door before Stiles can open it. He turns back to beam at Stiles and says, “After you.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Stiles replies with no small amount of sarcasm. So far, the sarcasm seems good-natured, a by-product of his husband’s amusement more than anything truly malicious, but Deucalion keeps a close eye on Stiles’ tells—for paranoia’s sake. This evening will go well, or he’ll die trying.

Thankfully, their second attempt at dinner is lovely. The food is excellent, and the company is better. The company also makes delightful noises while eating. He’s looking forward to hearing them in other, more intimate, contexts.

Stiles glares at him a bit when he’s, once again, not allowed to pay or even touch the bill. “Are you going to make a habit of this?” Stiles asks in annoyance.

“Of spoiling you?” Deucalion pretends to misunderstand. “But of course. That’s my privilege as your husband, and I thank you for indulging me.”

For an interesting few seconds, he can’t quite read Stiles’ chemosignals. Something complicated happens in his body language and scent. He isn’t sure whether irritation or desire will win out, but, with only a slight pause, Stiles accepts the arm Deucalion offers, and they leave without any incidental throttling.

So far, his first date is much less violent than his own parents’ initial courtship, and since Stiles is human, he’ll take that as a win.

He hides a smile when Stiles subconsciously tightens his grasp and leans closer, so the fabric of their trousers brushes.

“Oof, I’m stuffed! That opera cake was amazing,” Stiles declares as Deucalion holds the door open for him once more. “I can’t believe that I didn’t know this place existed.”

Deucalion’s mouth quirks up. “Well, I can’t believe that you’ve never had crème anglaise or pâté. _Scandalous_ , I say.”

Stiles scowls playfully at him and nudges his side. “We can’t all be super elite werewolf not-royalty.”

“Hmm, yes.” Deucalion schools his face into sympathetic lines. “It’s tragic really how the other half lives.”

“Other half! I’ll show you ‘other half!’” 

According to his scent, the anger on Stiles’ face is almost entirely for show, though a faint tendril underneath it all speaks to a deeply rooted… distaste? resignation? Deucalion recalls the state of the Sheriff’s house: clean, well-kept, but ragged around the edges. Stiles’ own apartment is small and messy. The most salient details are that it’s furnished by Ikea and has a persistent mold in the walls. Neither of the Stilinskis lack the necessities of life. They’re comfortable, but they don’t spend much on luxuries either. 

Perhaps this calls for a bit less of the pompous blowhard routine, even as a joke.

“Will you?”

Brown eyes narrow at him in suspicion. _And who made you feel like you were lesser?_ Stiles hesitates. “Will I what?”

Deucalion untangles their arms to wrap his around Stiles’ waist, tucking him into his side while they continue the short walk to street parking. “Will you show me? In this, I confess I’m your student.”

Stiles darts a questioning glance at him, obviously weighing the likelihood that he’s being mocked. He licks his lips. “Uh, are you serious?”

“Part of courtship, of knowing each other, is learning how to make room for someone in your world. I want to know everything about you.” Deucalion stops at his car, outside the passenger door. He crowds Stiles against it, looming as gently as he knows how. “I hope,” he says, stepping into the vee of Stiles’ legs, “that you’ll want to know me in the same way.”

The naked surprise on Stiles’ face nearly causes him physical distress. If his husband can still be surprised by such things, then his words and actions have not made enough of an impression.

Deucalion leans closer, breath fanning across Stiles’ cheek, until he’s close enough to brush his lips against his tender earlobe. “I’m told.” He laves the skin with his tongue. “That I’m a very.” Scrapes at it with a pointed canine. “Quick.” Gentles his touch to soft suckling. “Study.”

He glances up through his lashes and smiles, sweet and innocent as the long ago boy who’d never been to an unchaperoned party before meeting Peter Hale. Stiles pants for breath, chest heaving against his own. He can feel the rapid tattoo of Stiles’ heart through the thin material of their shirts. 

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks,“I’m sure you were a regular teacher’s pet.” His restless hands finally land on Deucalion’s belt and slide into his back pockets, pulling him into a rather saucy position for a public street.

So he ups the ante and whispers into Stiles’ ear, “Darling, I’ll make every effort to be your favorite.” With a last sharp, little nip, Deucalion steps back, already mourning the loss of Stiles plastered to his front, but those long and lovely fingers reflexively dig in, cupping his arse. Regretting the necessity, he reaches back for bony wrists, slowly dragging them out of his pockets before returning them to Stiles.

“Right,” Stiles voice hitches. “My favorite.” A flush rides high on his cheekbones,. Suddenly, breathtakingly, Stiles smirks at him, and with that, the game changes. “Well, I hope you learn as fast as you claim.”

“Faster,” Deucalion says without hesitation. “I’ll show you.”

Now, Stiles isn’t pressed or caged. He doesn’t lean. He lounges against the car door, nothing trembling or prey-like about him. It fills Deucalion with the urge to impress him, to offer the world, _to steal him_ , but none of those will work.

He’s never been so thrilled or so enamored as he is with Stiles.

“Huh.” The slow slide of Stiles’ tongue across his bottom lip is hypnotic. “I look forward to finding out.”

“Excellent.” He’s off-center from how quickly Stiles has flipped the script between them, but this is who he wants, who he’d seen when he was shifted and injured. This smart-mouthed, cocky boy: willing to dare apex predators to do their worst, but still possessing the kindness to help a wounded animal.

“Oh, love,” he sighs. “I don’t suppose that you’d be willing to come home with me tonight.”

“You’d be right on that, _husband_.” When Stiles smiles there’s a touch of meanness in it, but not too much. Just enough to keep things interesting.

Deucalion reaches for his key fob and hits the unlock button. The headlights flash and the car beeps twice. He gestures to the green XJ. “Your chariot awaits.”

Stiles blinks at him, slow and heavy-lidded. His long lashes almost flutter under their own weight, and he stretches out his neck, offering his throat to the wolf. “I had a good time tonight.” He pauses. “Deuc,” he says like he’s testing the name and finds it to his liking.

“Good,” he breathes. “I’m glad.”

“But.” Stiles snorts out a laugh, but it changes, softens somehow, and he smiles, small and private—unlike any of his smirks or quicksilver grins. “I mean it about showing you how the other half lives. Next time is on me.”

“I look forward to whatever you want to show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is a beta? Who can know? 
> 
> This chapter was self-edited. I apologize for any errors or oversights, so please let me know if you noticed anything.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. I'd love to know what you thought. :)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this was edited by the wonderful [Bones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bonesofbirdwings). You're the best.
> 
> Updates will happen when they happen. Everything is a WIP and everything hurts.


End file.
